


Sons of York

by the_alchemist



Category: Henry VI - Shakespeare
Genre: Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Postpartum Depression, Sibling Love, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/pseuds/the_alchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the main festivities are over, the seven children of the Duke and Duchess of York share their traditional Christmas midnight feast. One of Richard's sisters has overheard their mother talking about her plans for Richard's future ... plans that do not please him at all. But Richard has some secrets of his own, and finds an ally in his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Liadt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/gifts).



> Like Shakespeare, I have been vague about peoples' ages, but please assume that Anne was of-age-in-modern-terms by the time she was allowed to share her husband's bed.
> 
> See tags for warnings. I have extrapolated from Richard III that Shakespeare's Cecily was abusive towards Richard for his whole life, and touched on the idea that one reason for that (along with what she says about the two year pregnancy and so on) was postpartum depression with psychosis.

Anne and Edward both made a show of pretending they were too old for the York children's tradition of a Christmas midnight feast. When governesses took off Elizabeth and Margaret; tutors George and Dickon; and little Edmund was carried out by his nurse, _they_ were allowed to stay in the Great Hall with the grown-ups.

Edward talked armour and horses and swords with his father's knights. Next time there was a battle, he would be old enough to fight alongside them, and he wanted to show them that he was ready – more than ready. Anne talked with the ladies about her swelling belly. She had been married at eight, but had only this year been allowed to start sharing her husband's bed. The result had been pleasingly swift, and only marred by the political situation, which meant she was seeing less and less of her husband, devoted as he was to the Frenchwoman and her husband.

After the feast, Edward escorted her sister to her chambers. On the tower stairs, they exchanged a look and burst out laughing. They were both thinking the same thing: just one more year. Just one more year to be children: next year each would have gone through their own bloody initiation into adulthood. Hand in hand, they ran to George's bedchamber.

George had one of the tower rooms at Baynard's castle, and it was round, and hung with faded reddish tapestries that they remembered from the Great Hall when they were young. As always, it was a bit of a mess, with discarded shirts and stockings on the floor. The servants came into George's room twice as often as the others, but somehow he never managed to keep it tidy even so.

George, Bess, Meg, Dickon and Edmund were sitting around a sort of indoor picnic, piled high with sweetmeats and nuts, fruits, rounds of cheese, pies, and ... a whole roast peacock complete with tail?

"I thought you weren't coming," said George, shuffling round to make room for them. Anne sensed that he was a little put out. Perhaps he had enjoyed being the tallest of them for once: Edward, of course, was a veritable giant, and Anne too was remarkably tall.

"Which of you little thieves managed to steal the bird?" asked Edward, laughing. The wine had gone to his head.

"Dickon of course," said Edmund, his mouth full of marzipan. At five he was the youngest of them, and this was his first year. He'd been speaking about almost nothing else for a whole week.

Dickon didn't meet anyone's eyes, but Edward noticed a tiny smile play around his lips. He grinned and slapped his brother's crooked back. "Good for you, Dickon. You'll make an excellent spy for us one day."

"I really wouldn't," said Dickon.

"Spies have to blend in," said little Edmund. "And _no-one_ looks like Dickon." He sounded rather proud of his brother.

Edward laughed. Nothing could spoil his good humour. "True enough," he said, and tore off one of the peacock's wings.

"Anyway," said Bess. "Dickon's going to be a monk."

They all stared at her. Dickon was loved by his brothers and sisters, and admired for his cleverness both at lessons and in more interesting endeavours, such as the peacock. But none of them could picture him tonsured and cloistered.

"No I'm not," said Dickon. "Who told you that?"

"No-one told _me_ that," said Bess. "But I overheard Mother and Father talking. Arguing, rather. Mother wants you to be a monk in an enclosed order, Dickon. At first Father said no, but maybe you could be a priest, since we do need at least one bishop in the family, but she got upset – you know how she does – and in the end he said 'well, perhaps it's for the best.'"

"She wanted me dead when I was a baby," said Dickon, with no particular emotion. "She probably still does, only Father's forbidden her from saying so."

"Dickon!" said Meg. "Don't say such things."

"It's true though," said Bess. "I heard them arguing about that once too. She said it isn't murder to expose a child, so long as it's deformed." She wrapped a protective arm around Dickon. “I was only nine, but I swore I'd save you if she ever tried it.”

"Can we talk about something more cheerful?" said Anne, her hand on her belly.

"Like this peacock," said Edward, his mouth full. "You really should all have some before I eat the whole thing."


	2. Epiphany

Richard of York sat in his study at Baynard's Castle, signing and sealing letters. The Christmas festivities still hadn’t finished, but some things couldn't wait. Outside he heard the laughter and chatter of a hunting party setting out. He sighed, wishing he could be with them.

There was a knock on his door.

"Come in," he said, without looking up. It would be one of his clerks or stewards with another stream of requests.

"Father." It was Dickon. As he always did, York took a good look at the boy. His deformity seemed to be getting worse: his right arm and shoulder swollen to almost grotesque proportions beneath his doublet, while the left was still skinny.

Nonetheless, York smiled, pleased at the distraction. "Come and sit down son. But I didn't call for you. What is it?"

As always, Dickon got straight to the point. "I don't want to be a monk," he said. "And I don't want to be a priest or bishop either."

York gave a forced laugh. "Nor do I," he said.

Dickon didn't join in. "Yes, but no-one's trying to make you," he said.

"What makes you think someone's trying to make you?" asked York.

"Do you deny it?" asked Dickon.

York paused. "No," he said. "Your Mother thought it might be a good idea. The family needs allies in the church, and since you're the cleverest, you were a natural choice."

“Bess is as clever as me,” said Dickon. “And I think Edmund might turn out cleverer. But it doesn’t matter. What you really mean is that Mother wants me locked away where she doesn’t have to look at me or be scared of me, and you’re willing to go along with her.”

York opened his mouth to respond, but Dickon interrupted him. “Have a care, Father. I love and trust and respect you above anyone else, alive or dead, but if you lie to me now, that love and trust and respect will disappear in an instant.”

“I should have you whipped for insolence,” said York.

Dickon shrugged in a way that drew attention to his twisted back – deliberately, York thought, inwardly smiling at it.

“I’m in pain every moment of every day,” said Dickon. “I doubt it will matter much to me whether I’m whipped or not. Unless you want to whip me to death, of course, which would be preferable to the monastic life.”

“Well,” said York, after a moment. “What would you do instead?”

“Be a warrior, of course,” said Dickon. “Like you, and like my brothers.”

“Now Dickon–”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Dickon. “The physicians said I couldn’t, I shouldn’t. But who hired those physicians, Father?”

“Your Mother,” said York, neutrally. At once he felt a pang of guilt and regret. It had been his dearest wish that Dickon should learn to fight like the others, and he saw now he should at least have given the boy a chance. But it was too late. Dickon was ... what? Thirteen? Far too old to start learning to be a serious fighter, even for someone without Dickon’s disadvantages.”

“Yes,” said Dickon. “And she who pays the piper calls the tune. And do you know why she doesn’t want me to fight, Father?”

“She’s worried about you.”

Dickon laughed. “Nonsense. She would be overjoyed if I went jousting and fell on my head and died. No. She’s afraid that with a sword in my hand I’d have power. She’s terrified of me getting even just a little tiny bit of it. She wants me shut away from the world so that I’ll–”

“Dickon!”

“Do you deny it, Father?”

A long pause.

“No,” said York. “Your Mother is a good woman, a loving wife and mother. She has very few flaws but–” He broke off. It was wrong to speak to his son like this. It was unfair on both of them, on Dickon’s brothers and sisters in whom he would never confide thus, and most of all on his beloved Cecily. On the other hand, York saw, it was this or lose his third and favourite son, one way or another.

His mind was made up. He continued. “But she has one great flaw, and it is her ... lack of maternal affection for you. The pregnancy went hard with her, Dickon, and afterwards, it went worse. She suffered a sort of madness, I suppose, she believed all sorts of things: that her pregnancy lasted two years, that you were born a monster with fangs.

“I consulted all the best physicians and they said it happens sometimes to women who have just given birth: a deep melancholy, or worse. They could prescribe nothing except prayer, and believe me I was on my knees for hours every night.

And it worked – in a way. She regained most of her sanity, but she was never the same again and she never ... well, it seems she never developed motherly feelings for you. I’m sorry. I wish it could be different. I wish I could do something except–” Again he broke off.

“What, Father?” said Dickon.

“Except try to love you enough for both of us.”

Dickon stared at the ground. “Thank you, Father,” he said. “Thank you for your honesty.”

Again there was silence.

“What now?” said York. “Shall I have you taught to fight as your brothers were?”

Dickon laughed, clearly a little embarrassed. “Yes,” he said. “It would be good to do it officially, but ... well, I don’t suppose _I’ve_ been entirely honest with _you_. I’ve been learning for years. First of all Edward and George taught me, and then ... well, I’d noticed that one of your captains has a withered arm a bit like mine. Not really, since I was born with it and his got that way when it was broken in a battle, but enough the same. And I’d noticed that he can still use a shield with it, sort of tied on, and I thought that if I’m to fight, that’s the way I’d need to do it. So I got him to teach me.”

York remembered the man. Captain Blunt – in name as in nature. “And he did this for free, did he?”

Dickon blushed a little then. “No. I paid him: coin when I could get it, or else food and wine, or my hats and gloves, which he could sell for a pretty penny. I’m surprised you didn’t notice – not the things going missing, I know you’re above such petty concerns – but my muscles, Father. See how strong my sword arm has grown!”

And then York laughed. Both at the cheek of ‘petty concerns’, and at his own foolishness. What he had taken for a growing deformity was in fact the well-developed arm of a young swordsman who took training seriously. “But when ...” York trailed off, knowing the answer.

“I practiced when I said I was unwell, Father. I’d go to my bedchamber and spend hours upon hours swinging the sword and Captain Blunt had shown me too. As for the lessons, it was easy enough to sneak off when Edward and George were having theirs.”

“You are a wicked boy,” said York, knowing that he’d have done exactly the same thing in Dickon’s position. Then he made up his mind. “And to punish you, I’m going to send you away.”

Dickon’s face fell. “I meant it when I said I’d rather die than go to a monastery, Father.”

York laughed. “Well, that’s better than threatening to kill the monks I suppose. But no. I wasn’t thinking of that, I was thinking of sending you to Middleham, to the Earl of Warwick. You will get the best training possible there – though Warwick has no sons of his own he already has young Henry Percy as a ward and by all account has hired some of the best swordsmen in Europe to teach him. And of course I’ll send Captain Blunt along with you too.”

Dickon looked at his father for a moment, then smiled and nodded. “Thank you Father,” he said. “You will not regret this. I will be loyal to you as long as I live. If anyone – even my own brothers – seek to dishonour you or your memory, I will cut them down. And I will practise every hour I can.”

“I have no doubt of that, Dickon,” said York. “Now go and decide what you want to take. I will bring you to Warwick myself, and we will leave tomorrow.” Better to break the news to Cecily and then ride far, far away.

It broke his heart though. He had always assumed they would be reconciled, that Cecily would come to her senses, that Dickon would see in his mother all the beauty and virtue that York himself saw in her, and now he saw just how unlikely that was.

Dickon bowed and left.

And there was another thing too, nagging at York. Something Dickon had said. “Even my own brothers”.

Well, that was hyperbole, surely? He had chosen to say that precisely because it was so implausible that the sons and daughters of York should ever turn against one another.

York looked down at his papers, trying to put all such thoughts from his mind.


End file.
